Monsieur de Camors — Complete

CHAPTER XII. CIRCE

But there exists, nevertheless, in this code one article, as to which M. de Camors could not deceive himself, and it was that which forbade his attempting to assail the honor of the General under penalty of being in his own eyes, as a gentleman, a felon and foresworn. He had accepted from this old man confidence, affection, services, benefits—everything which could bind one man inviolably to another man—if there be beneath the heavens anything called honor. He felt this profoundly.

His conduct toward Madame de Campvallon had been irreproachable; and all the more so, because the only woman he was interdicted from loving was the only woman in Paris, or in the universe, who naturally pleased him most. He entertained for her, at once, the interest which attaches to forbidden fruit, to the attraction of strange beauty, and to the mystery of an impenetrable sphinx. She was, at this time, more goddess-like than ever. The immense fortune of her husband, and the adulation which it brought her, had placed her on a golden car. On this she seated herself with a gracious and native majesty, as if in her proper place.

The luxury of her toilet, of her jewels, of her house and of her equipages, was of regal magnificence. She blended the taste of an artist with that of a patrician. Her person appeared really to be made divine by the rays of this splendor. Large, blonde, graceful, the eyes blue and unfathomable, the forehead grave, the mouth pure and proud it was impossible to see her enter a salon with her light, gliding step, or to see her reclining in her carriage, her hands folded serenely, without dreaming of the young immortals whose love brought death.

She had even those traits of physiognomy, stern and wild, which the antique sculptors doubtless had surprised in supernatural visitations, and which they have stamped on the eyes and the lips of their marble gods. Her arms and shoulders, perfect in form, seemed models, in the midst of the rosy and virgin snow which covered the neighboring mountains. She was truly superb and bewitching. The Parisian world respected as much as it admired her, for she played her difficult part of young bride to an old man so perfectly as to avoid scandal. Without any pretence of extraordinary devotion, she knew how to join to her worldly pomps the exercise of charity, and all the other practices of an elegant piety. Madame de la Roche-Jugan, who watched her closely, as one watching a prey, testified, herself, in her favor; and judged her more and more worthy of her son. And Camors, who observed her, in spite of himself, with an eager curiosity, was finally induced to believe, as did his aunt and all the world, that she conscientiously performed her difficult duties, and that she found in the eclat of her life and the gratification of her pride a sufficient compensation for the sacrifice of her youth, her heart, and her beauty; but certain souvenirs of the past, joined to certain peculiarities, which he fancied he remarked in the Marquise, induced him to distrust.

There were times, when recalling all that he had once witnessed—the abysses and the flame at the bottom of that heart—he was tempted to suspect the existence of many storms under all this calm exterior, and perhaps some wickedness. It is true she never was with him precisely as she was before the world. The character of their relations was marked by a peculiar tone. It was precisely that tone of covert irony adopted by two persons who desired neither to remember nor to forget. This tone, softened in the language of Camors by his worldly tact and his respect, was much more pointed, and had much more of bitterness on the side of the young woman.

He even fancied, at times, that he discovered a shade of coquetry under this treatment; and this provocation, vague as it was, coming from this beautiful, cold, and inscrutable creature, seemed to him a game fearfully mysterious, that at once attracted and disturbed him.

This was the state of things when the Count came, according to custom, to pass the first days of September at the chateau of Campvallon, and met there Madame de Tecle and her daughter. The visit was a painful one, this year, for Madame de Tecle. Her confidence deserted her, and serious concern took its place. She had, it is true, fixed in her mind, as the last point of her hopes, the moment when her daughter should have reached twenty years of age; and Marie was only eighteen.

But she already had had several offers, and several times public rumor had already declared her to be betrothed.

Now, Camors could not have been ignorant of the rumors circulating in the neighborhood, and yet he did not speak. His countenance did not change. He was coldly affectionate to Madame de Tecle, but toward Marie, in spite of her beautiful blue eyes, like her mother’s, and her curly hair, he preserved a frozen indifference. For Camors had other anxieties, of which Madame de Tecle knew nothing. The manner of Madame Campvallon toward him had assumed a more marked character of aggressive raillery. A defensive attitude is never agreeable to a man, and Camors felt it more disagreeable than most men—being so little accustomed to it.

He resolved promptly to shorten his visit at Campvallon.

On the eve of his departure, about five o’clock in the afternoon, he was standing at his window, looking beyond the trees at the great black clouds sailing over the valley, when he heard the sound of a voice that had power to move him deeply—“Monsieur de Camors!” He saw the Marquise standing under his window.

“Will you walk with me?” she added.

He bowed and descended immediately. At the moment he reached her:

“It is suffocating,” she said. “I wish to walk round the park and will take you with me.”

He muttered a few polite phrases, and they began walking, side by side, through the alleys of the park.

She moved at a rapid pace, with her majestic motion, her body swaying, her head erect. One would have looked for a page behind her, but she had none, and her long blue robe—she rarely wore short skirts—trailed on the sand and over the dry leaves with the soft rustle of silk.

“I have disturbed you, probably?” she said, after a moment’s pause. “What were you dreaming of up there?”

“Nothing—only watching the coming storm.”

“Are you becoming poetical, cousin?”

“There is no necessity for becoming, for I already am infinitely so!”

“I do not think so. Shall you leave to-morrow?”

“I shall.”

“Why so soon?”

“I have business elsewhere.”

“Very well. But Vau—Vautrot—is he not there?”

Vautrot was the secretary of M. de Camors.

“Vautrot can not do everything,” he replied.

“By the way, I do not like your Vautrot.”

“Nor I. But he was recommended to me by my old friend, Madame d’Oilly, as a freethinker, and at the same time by my aunt, Madame de la Roche-Jugan, as a religious man!”

“How amusing!”

“Nevertheless,” said Camors, “he is intelligent and witty, and writes a fine hand.”

“And you?”

“How? What of me?”

“Do you also write a good hand?”

“I will show you, whenever you wish!”

“Ah! and will you write to me?”

It is difficult to imagine the tone of supreme indifference and haughty persiflage with which the Marquise sustained this dialogue, without once slackening her pace, or glancing at her companion, or changing the proud and erect pose of her head.

“I will write you either prose or verse, as you wish,” said Camors.

“Ah! you know how to compose verses?”

“When I am inspired!”

“And when are you inspired?”

“Usually in the morning.”

“And we are now in the evening. That is not complimentary to me.”

“But you, Madame, had no desire to inspire me, I think.”

“Why not, then? I should be happy and proud to do so. Do you know what I should like to put there?” and she stopped suddenly before a rustic bridge, which spanned a murmuring rivulet.

“I do not know!”

“You can not even guess? I should like to put an artificial rock there.”

“Why not a natural one? In your place I should put a natural one!”

“That is an idea,” said the Marquise, and walking on she crossed the bridge.

“But it really thunders. I like to hear thunder in the country. Do you?”

“I prefer to hear it thunder at Paris.”

“Why?”

“Because then I should not hear it.”

“You have no imagination.”

“I have; but I smother it.”

“Possibly. I have suspected you of hiding your merits, and particularly from me.”

“Why should I conceal my merits from you?”

“‘Why should I conceal my merits’ is good!” said the Marquise, ironically. “Why? Out of charity, Monsieur, not to dazzle me, and in regard for my repose! You are really too good, I assure you. Here comes the rain.”

Large drops of rain began to fall on the dry leaves, and on the yellow sand of the alley. The day was dying, and the sudden shower bent the boughs of the trees.

“We must return,” said the young woman; “this begins to get serious.”

She took, in haste, the path which led to the chateau; but after a few steps a bright flash broke over her head, the noise of the thunder resounded, and a deluge of rain fell upon the fields.

There was fortunately, near by, a shelter in which the Marquise and her companion could take refuge. It was a ruin, preserved as an ornament to the park, which had formerly been the chapel of the ancient chateau. It was almost as large as the village chapel—the broken walls half concealed under a thick mantle of ivy. Its branches had pushed through the roof and mingled with the boughs of the old trees which surrounded and shaded it. The timbers had disappeared. The extremity of the choir, and the spot formerly occupied by the altar, were alone covered by the remains of the roof. Wheelbarrows, rakes, spades, and other garden tools were piled there.

The Marquise had to take refuge in the midst of this rubbish, in the narrow space, and her companion followed her.

The storm, in the mean time, increased in violence. The rain fell in torrents through the old walls, inundating the soil in the ancient nave. The lightning flashed incessantly. Every now and then fragments of earth and stone detached themselves from the roof, and fell into the choir.

“I find this magnificent!” said Madame de Campvallon.

“I also,” said Camors, raising his eyes to the crumbling roof which half protected them; “but I do not know whether we are safe here!”

“If you fear, you would better go!” said the Marquise.

“I fear for you.”

“You are too good, I assure you.”

She took off her cap and brushed it with her glove, to remove the drops of rain which had fallen upon it. After a slight pause, she suddenly raised her uncovered head and cast on Camors one of those searching looks which prepares a man for an important question.

“Cousin!” she said, “if you were sure that one of these flashes of lightning would kill you in a quarter of an hour, what would you do?”

“Why, cousin, naturally I should take a last farewell of you.”

“How?”

He regarded her steadily, in his turn. “Do you know,” he said, “there are moments when I am tempted to think you a devil?”

“Truly! Well, there are times when I am tempted to think so myself—for example, at this moment. Do you know what I should wish? I wish I could control the lightning, and in two seconds you would cease to exist.”

“For what reason?”

“Because I recollect there was a man to whom I offered myself, and who refused me, and that this man still lives. And this displeases me a little—a great deal—passionately.”

“Are you serious, Madame?” replied Camors.

She laughed.

“I hope you did not think so. I am not so wicked. It was a joke—and in bad taste, I admit. But seriously now, cousin, what is your opinion of me? What kind of woman has time made me?”

“I swear to you I am entirely ignorant.”

“Admitting I had become, as you did me the honor to suppose, a diabolical person, do you think you had nothing to do with it? Tell me! Do you not believe that there is in the life of a woman a decisive hour, when the evil seed which is cast upon her soul may produce a terrible harvest? Do you not believe this? Answer me! And should I not be excusable if I entertained toward you the sentiment of an exterminating angel; and have I not some merit in being what I am—a good woman, who loves you well—with a little rancor, but not much—and who wishes you all sorts of prosperity in this world and the next? Do not answer me: it might embarrass you, and it would be useless.”

She left her shelter, and turned her face toward the lowering sky to see whether the storm was over.

“It has stopped raining,” she said, “let us go.”

She then perceived that the lower part of the nave had been transformed into a lake of mud and water. She stopped at its brink, and uttered a little cry:

“What shall I do?” she said, looking at her light shoes. Then, turning toward Camors, she added, laughing:

“Monsieur, will you get me a boat?”

Camors, himself, recoiled from stepping into the greasy mud and stagnant water which filled the whole space of the nave.

“If you will wait a little,” he said, “I shall find you some boots or sabots, no matter what.”

“It will be much easier,” she said abruptly, “for you to carry me to the door;” and without waiting for the young man’s reply, she tucked up her skirts carefully, and when she had finished, she said, “Carry me!”

He looked at her with astonishment, and thought for a moment she was jesting; but soon saw she was perfectly serious.

“Of what are you afraid?” she asked.

“I am not at all afraid,” he answered.

“Is it that you are not strong enough?”

“Mon Dieu! I should think I was.”

He took her in his arms, as in a cradle, while she held up her skirts with both hands. He then descended the steps and moved toward the door with his strange burden. He was obliged to be very careful not to slip on the wet earth, and this absorbed him during the first few steps; but when he found his footing more sure, he felt a natural curiosity to observe the countenance of the Marquise.

The uncovered head of the young woman rested a little on the arm with which he held her. Her lips were slightly parted with a half-wicked smile that showed her fine white teeth; the same expression of ungovernable malice burned in her dark eyes, which she riveted for some seconds on those of Camors with persistent penetration—then suddenly veiled them under the fringe of her dark lashes. This glance sent a thrill like lightning to his very marrow.

“Do you wish to drive me mad?” he murmured.

“Who knows?” she replied.

The same moment she disengaged herself from his arms, and placing her foot on the ground again, left the ruin.

They reached the chateau without exchanging a word. Just before entering the house the young Marquise turned toward Camors and said to him:

“Be sure that at heart I am very good, really.”

Notwithstanding this assertion, Camors was yet more determined to leave the next morning, as he had previously decided. He carried away the most painful impression of the scene of that evening.

She had wounded his pride, inflamed his hopeless passion, and disquieted his honor.

“What is this woman, and what does she want of me? Is it love or vengeance that inspires her with this fiendish coquetry?” he asked himself. Whatever it was, Camors was not such a novice in similar adventures as not to perceive clearly the yawning abyss under the broken ice. He resolved sincerely to close it again between them, and forever. The best way to succeed in this, avowedly, was to cease all intercourse with the Marquise. But how could such conduct be explained to the General, without awakening his suspicion and lowering his wife in his esteem? That plan was impossible. He armed himself with all his courage, and resigned himself to endure with resolute soul all the trials which the love, real or pretended, of the Marquise reserved for him.

He had at this time a singular idea. He was a member of several of the most aristocratic clubs. He organized a chosen group of men from the elite of his companions, and formed with them a secret association, of which the object was to fix and maintain among its members the principles and points of honor in their strictest form. This society, which had only been vaguely spoken of in public under the name of “Societe des Raffines,” and also as “The Templars” which latter was its true name—had nothing in common with “The Devourers,” illustrated by Balzac. It had nothing in it of a romantic or dramatic character. Those who composed this club did not, in any way, defy ordinary morals, nor set themselves above the laws of their country. They did not bind themselves by any vows of mutual aid in extremity. They bound themselves simply by their word of honor to observe, in their reciprocal relations, the rules of purest honor.

These rules were specified in their code. The text it is difficult to give; but it was based entirely on the point of honor, and regulated the affairs of the club, such as the card-table, the turf, duelling, and gallantry. For example, any member was disqualified from belonging to this association who either insulted or interfered with the wife or relative of one of his colleagues. The only penalty was exclusion: but the consequences of this exclusion were grave; for all the members ceased thereafter to associate with, recognize, or even bow to the offender. The Templars found in this secret society many advantages. It was a great security in their intercourse with one another, and in the different circumstances of daily life, where they met continually either at the opera, in salons, or on the turf.

Camors was an exception among his companions and rivals in Parisian life by the systematic decision of his doctrine. It was not so much an embodiment of absolute scepticism and practical materialism; but the want of a moral law is so natural to man, and obedience to higher laws so sweet to him, that the chosen adepts to whom the project of Camors was submitted accepted it with enthusiasm. They were happy in being able to substitute a sort of positive and formal religion for restraints so limited as their own confused and floating notions of honor. For Camors himself, as is easily understood, it was a new barrier which he wished to erect between himself and the passion which fascinated him. He attached himself to this with redoubled force, as the only moral bond yet left him. He completed his work by making the General accept the title of President of the Association. The General, to whom Honor was a sort of mysterious but real goddess, was delighted to preside over the worship of his idol. He felt flattered by his young friend’s selection, and esteemed him the more.

It was the middle of winter. The Marquise Campvallon had resumed for some time her usual course of life, which was at the same time strict but elegant. Punctual at church every morning, at the Bois and at charity bazaars during the day, at the opera or the theatres in the evening, she had received M. de Camors without the shadow of apparent emotion. She even treated him more simply and more naturally than ever, with no recurrence to the past, no allusion to the scene in the park during the storm; as if she had, on that day, disclosed everything that had lain hidden in her heart. This conduct so much resembled indifference, that Camors should have been delighted; but he was not—on the contrary he was annoyed by it. A cruel but powerful interest, already too dear to his blase soul, was disappearing thus from his life. He was inclined to believe that Madame de Campvallon possessed a much less complicated character than he had fancied; and that little by little absorbed in daily trifles, she had become in reality what she pretended to be—a good woman, inoffensive, and contented with her lot.

He was one evening in his orchestra-stall at the opera. They were singing The Huguenots. The Marquise occupied her box between the columns. The numerous acquaintances Camors met in the passages during the first entr’acte prevented his going as soon as usual to pay his respects to his cousin. At last, after the fourth act, he went to visit her in her box, where he found her alone, the General having descended to the parterre for a few moments. He was astonished, on entering, to find traces of tears on the young woman’s cheeks. Her eyes were even moist. She seemed displeased at being surprised in the very act of sentimentality.

“Music always excites my nerves,” she said.

“Indeed!” said Camors. “You, who always reproach me with hiding my merits, why do you hide yours? If you are still capable of weeping, so much the better.”

“No! I claim no merit for that. Oh, heavens! If you only knew! It is quite the contrary.”

“What a mystery you are!”

“Are you very curious to fathom this mystery? Only that? Very well—be happy! It is time to put an end to this.”

She drew her chair from the front of the box out of public view, and, turning toward Camors, continued: “You wish to know what I am, what I feel, and what I think; or rather, you wish to know simply whether I dream of love? Very well, I dream only of that! Have I lovers, or have I not? I have none, and never shall have, but that will not be because of my virtue. I believe in nothing, except my own self-esteem and my contempt of others. The little intrigues, the petty passions, which I see in the world, make me indignant to the bottom of my soul. It seems to me that women who give themselves for so little must be base creatures. As for myself, I remember having said to you one day—it is a million years since then!—that my person is sacred to me; and to commit a sacrilege I should wish, like the vestals of Rome, a love as great as my crime, and as terrible as death. I wept just now during that magnificent fourth act. It was not because I listened to the most marvellous music ever heard on this earth; it was because I admire and envy passionately the superb and profound love of that time. And it is ever thus—when I read the history of the glorious sixteenth century, I am in ecstacies. How well those people knew how to love and how to die! One night of love—then death. That is delightful. Now, cousin, you must leave me. We are observed. They will believe we love each other, and as we have not that pleasure, it is useless to incur the penalties. Since I am still in the midst of the court of Charles Tenth, I pity you, with your black coat and round hat. Good-night.”

“I thank you very much,” replied Camors, taking the hand she extended to him coldly, and left the box. He met M. de Campvallon in the passage.

“Parbleu! my dear friend,” said the General, seizing him by the arm. “I must communicate to you an idea which has been in my brain all the evening.”

“What idea, General?”

“Well, there are here this evening a number of charming young girls. This set me to thinking of you, and I even said to my wife that we must marry you to one of these young women!”

“Oh, General!”

“Well, why not?”

“That is a very serious thing—if one makes a mistake in his choice—that is everything.”

“Bah! it is not so difficult a thing. Take a wife like mine, who has a great deal of religion, not much imagination, and no fancies. That is the whole secret. I tell you this in confidence, my dear fellow!”

“Well, General, I will think of it.”

“Do think of it,” said the General, in a serious tone; and went to join his young wife, whom he understood so well.

As to her, she thoroughly understood herself, and analyzed her own character with surprising truth.

Madame de Campvallon was just as little what her manner indicated as was M. de Camors on his side. Both were altogether exceptional in French society. Equally endowed by nature with energetic souls and enlightened minds, both carried innate depravity to a high degree. The artificial atmosphere of high Parisian civilization destroys in women the sentiment and the taste for duty, and leaves them, nothing but the sentiment and the taste for pleasure. They lose in the midst of this enchanted and false life, like theatrical fairyland, the true idea of life in general, and Christian life in particular. And we can confidently affirm that all those who do not make for themselves, apart from the crowd, a kind of Thebaid—and there are such—are pagans. They are pagans, because the pleasures of the senses and of the mind alone interest them, and they have not once, during the year, an impression of the moral law, unless the sentiment, which some of them detest, recalls it to them. They are pagans, like the beautiful, worldly Catholics of the fifteenth century—loving luxury, rich stuffs, precious furniture, literature, art, themselves, and love. They were charming pagans, like Marie Stuart, and capable, like her, of remaining true Catholics even under the axe.

We are speaking, let it be understood, of the best of the elite—of those that read, and of those that dream. As to the rest, those who participate in the Parisian life on its lighter side, in its childish whirl, and the trifling follies it entails, who make rendezvous, waste their time, who dress and are busy day and night doing nothing, who dance frantically in the rays of the Parisian sun, without thought, without passion, without virtue, and even without vice—we must own it is impossible to imagine anything more contemptible.

The Marquise de Campvallon was then—as she truly said to the man she resembled—a great pagan; and, as she also said to herself in one of her serious moments when a woman’s destiny is decided by the influence of those they love, Camors had sown in her heart a seed which had marvellously fructified.

Camors dreamed little of reproaching himself for it, but struck with all the harmony that surrounded the Marquise, he regretted more bitterly than ever the fatality which separated them.

He felt, however, more sure of himself, since he had bound himself by the strictest obligations of honor. He abandoned himself from this moment with less scruple to the emotions, and to the danger against which he believed himself invincibly protected. He did not fear to seek often the society of his beautiful cousin, and even contracted the habit of repairing to her house two or three times a week, after leaving the Chamber of Deputies. Whenever he found her alone, their conversation invariably assumed a tone of irony and of raillery, in which both excelled. He had not forgotten her reckless confidences at the opera, and recalled it to her, asking her whether she had yet discovered that hero of love for whom she was looking, who should be, according to her ideas, a villain like Bothwell, or a musician like Rizzio.

“There are,” she replied, “villains who are also musicians; but that is imagination. Sing me, then, something apropos.”

It was near the close of winter. The Marquise gave a ball. Her fetes were justly renowned for their magnificence and good taste. She did the honors with the grace of a queen. This evening she wore a very simple costume, as was becoming in the courteous hostess. It was a gown of dark velvet, with a train; her arms were bare, without jewels; a necklace of large pearls lay on her rose-tinted bosom, and the heraldic coronet sparkled on her fair hair.

Camors caught her eye as he entered, as if she were watching for him. He had seen her the previous evening, and they had had a more lively skirmish than usual. He was struck by her brilliancy—her beauty heightened, without doubt, by the secret ardor of the quarrel, as if illuminated by an interior flame, with all the clear, soft splendor of a transparent alabaster vase.

When he advanced to join her and salute her, yielding, against his will, to an involuntary movement of passionate admiration, he said:

“You are truly beautiful this evening. Enough so to make one commit a crime.”

She looked fixedly in his eyes, and replied:

“I should like to see that,” and then left him, with superb nonchalance.

The General approached, and tapping the Count on the shoulder, said:

“Camors! you do not dance, as usual. Let us play a game of piquet.”

“Willingly, General;” and traversing two or three salons they reached the private boudoir of the Marquise. It was a small oval room, very lofty, hung with thick red silk tapestry, covered with black and white flowers. As the doors were removed, two heavy curtains isolated the room completely from the neighboring gallery. It was there that the General usually played cards and slept during his fetes. A small card-table was placed before a divan. Except this addition, the boudoir preserved its every-day aspect. Woman’s work, half finished, books, journals, and reviews were strewn upon the furniture. They played two or three games, which the General won, as Camors was very abstracted.

“I reproach myself, young man,” said the former, “in having kept you so long away from the ladies. I give you back your liberty—I shall cast my eye on the journals.”

“There is nothing new in them, I think,” said Camors, rising. He took up a newspaper himself, and placing his back against the mantelpiece, warmed his feet, one after the other. The General threw himself on the divan, ran his eye over the ‘Moniteur de l’Armee’, approving of some military promotions, and criticising others; and, little by little, he fell into a doze, his head resting on his chest.

But Camors was not reading. He listened vaguely to the music of the orchestra, and fell into a reverie. Through these harmonies, through the murmurs and warm perfume of the ball, he followed, in thought, all the evolutions of her who was mistress and queen of all. He saw her proud and supple step—he heard her grave and musical voice—he felt her breath.

This young man had exhausted everything. Love and pleasure had no longer for him secrets or temptations; but his imagination, cold and blase, had arisen all inflamed before this beautiful, living, palpitating statue. She was really for him more than a woman—more than a mortal. The antique fables of amorous goddesses and drunken Bacchantes—the superhuman voluptuousness unknown in terrestrial pleasures—were in reach of his hand, separated from him only by the shadow of this sleeping old man. But a shadow was ever between them—it was honor.

His eyes, as if lost in thought, were fixed straight before him on the curtain opposite the chimney. Suddenly this curtain was noiselessly raised, and the young Marquise appeared, her brow surmounted by her coronet. She threw a rapid glance over the boudoir, and after a moment’s pause, let the curtain fall gently, and advanced directly toward Camors, who stood dazzled and immovable. She took both his hands, without speaking, looked at his steadily—throwing a rapid glance at her husband, who still slept—and, standing on tiptoe, offered her lips to the young man.

Bewildered, and forgetting all else, he bent, and imprinted a kiss on her lips.

At that very moment, the General made a sudden movement and woke up; but the same instant the Marquise was standing before him, her hands resting on the card-table; and smiling upon him, she said, “Good-morning, my General!”

The General murmured a few words of apology, but she laughingly pushed him back on his divan.

“Continue your nap,” she said; “I have come in search of my cousin, for the last cotillon.” The General obeyed.

She passed out by the gallery. The young man; pale as a spectre, followed her.

Passing under the curtain, she turned toward him with a wild light burning in her eyes. Then, before she was lost in the throng, she whispered, in a low, thrilling voice:

“There is the crime!”